A *** bellied cockroach once tried to tell me, a story of woe and revenge.
Involving a candle, a beetle named Chloe, and a rat whose fur he'd singed.

I dusted my chest of parmesan, I stood up and said "**** me?".
"Well what I will do about this good sir, you'll just wait and see!"

So I put on my top hat and googles, and put my new friend at heed.
I summoned my most trusted horsey, and took off for the village with speed.

Of course I don't own a horsey, but the cockroach doesn't know this.
And once I talk to the rat, he'll see I'm just *******.

The imagination's a weird place. You never know where it'll take you.
You smoke enough hash and snort enough cheese, that ****** might just break you.

So yeah this linguistic adventure might be an exercise in futility.
But it's moments like this, I must insist, that there is at least humility.